


sunlight

by hardboiledmeggs



Series: home with you [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, Friendship/Love, Gender Roles, I have more to say about women in middle earth, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, no love triangles, not perfectly canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:40:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26475817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardboiledmeggs/pseuds/hardboiledmeggs
Summary: A story of Elfwine, the son of Éomer and Lothíriel, and the eldest of Arwen and Aragorn's daughters.A follow-up to "home with you."
Relationships: Elboron & Eldarion & Elfwine (Tolkien), Elfwine & Éomer Éadig & Lothíriel, Elfwine (Tolkien) & Original Female Character(s), Elfwine/Original Female Character, Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel
Series: home with you [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1924762
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, here's this. It's me again trying my hand at giving those unnamed women in Tolkien's appendices a story to go with them. Hope you like it! As always, I'd love to hear what you think in the comments :)

**Éomer**

Éomer can tell when his son is in love. The first girl had caught Elfwine’s eye when he was just fourteen. She had been a blacksmith’s daughter, a wild and free girl, and Éomer and his queen, Lothíriel, had enjoyed watching as their son chased her fruitlessly through Edoras, and then comforted him when she at last turned him down in favor of a boy from her own class. At fifteen, there had been a brief dalliance with a girl from the Meduseld kitchens who kept Elfwine’s pockets full of sweets. Then, when he was seventeen, he developed an attachment to a high-born girl from Grimslade. Éomer had caught her and Elfwine kissing once, in a lonely hallway in Meduseld in the dark of night, and a fatherly lecture about the proper way to treat a lady and the seriousness of such liaisons had been delivered. Lothíriel had judged both Elfwine and the girl to be too free with their pets and caresses for anything real to come of it, and she was proven correct when the romance fizzled within a month.

And now, the boy is no longer a boy, but a twenty-one year old man, tall and strong, with his mother’s dark eyes and long blond hair to match his father’s. And now, again, he is in love. 

Lothíriel had brought him to Minas Tirith the year before, a routine annual visit to kindle alliances and friendships. When they returned to Meduseld, when she was back in his arms, Lothíriel had given Éomer a vague warning that there was something in that far away city with the power to sweep Elfwine away, that they ought to keep a close eye on him there. When he had asked her to say more, Lothíriel only pursed her lips and shrugged and pulled him into their bedroom, where the issue was forgotten until this very moment.

Now, he and Elfwine are presented to the court in the Citadel in Minas Tirith while Lothíriel has stayed behind to sit on the throne of Rohan. As they cross the great reception hall with its massive, vaulted ceiling, Éomer is pleased to see his old friend, Aragorn, on the dais at the hall’s far end, next to his queen, Arwen. Beside him stands the prince Eldarion, who grins and wags his eyebrows at Elfwine until Éomer hears his son’s quiet chuckle, hastily concealed by a clearing of the throat. Behind Eldarion is a row of dark-haired girls, the princesses of Gondor, the youngest of whom is now eleven. It’s a visit with a monumental purpose - the beginning of a sort of joint education, wherein Aragorn and Éomer will together teach their sons about the deep cooperation necessary between Gondor and Rohan, lands they will someday have their own turn to rule. 

At the dais, he and Elfwine clasp arms with Aragorn and Eldarion, and give deep bows to Queen Arwen. At a sign from Aragorn, his eldest daughter, Altáriel, steps forward to give them welcoming gifts - twin silver medals, beautifully designed with the delicate flowers of the White Tree. Éomer bows courteously, and turns to watch as Elfwine receives his. It’s then that he sees it - the way Elfwine’s eyes widen slightly, the way his lips part, the slight hitch in his breath when he smiles at her. It’s so subtle, such a collection of small things, that Éomer is sure he is the only one who notices that his son is clearly, entirely in love with the girl in front of him.

Altáriel is a girl of middling height with her mother’s dark hair and her father’s serious eyes. Éomer can see that she is certainly pretty enough, though she lacks Arwen’s preternatural beauty. There is something quiet but expressive about her, and he can understand why a young man like Elfwine would be drawn to her.

He can hear Lothíriel’s voice in his head.  _ It’s a good match _ , she would say.  _ Perfect _ . His heart sticks in his throat. In an instant, he remembers the tiny baby he had cradled, Lothíriel at his side, and suddenly he can feel his bones ache. His son is grown, and he has grown old. He sees the future in front of him, a shorter distance ahead than behind.

He frowns to himself. What, then, had Lothíriel tried to warn him about? If Elfwine will be swept away by a love such as this, he, and Rohan with him, will be in good hands. It’s true that he’s chosen the most notoriously intractable of Aragorn’s daughters, but, he thinks, perhaps that can be overcome.

But then Altáriel turns, and he can see her face and there is - nothing. The great swell of emotion he had seen in Elfwine’s face is absent in hers. She gives her father and mother a placid smile, then turns back to join her sisters, her long, dark hair swinging around her waist as she moves. And there, Éomer sees the danger Lothíriel had tried to warn him about. Their son is in love. The woman he loves is not.

  
  


* * *

**Elfwine**

He has kissed her twice. Elboron, knows about the first time; Elfwine had told him about in a moment of bonding between cousins and regretted it later. Eldarion doesn’t know about either time Elfwine kissed his sister, and Elfwine intends to keep it that way. If he had been smarter, he realizes, he would have kept it entirely a secret and not told Elboron either, but it’s too late to undo that now.

There are two key reasons that Elfwine is determined to keep this secret. First, because the first time Altáriel - who had been named in honor of her great-grandmother, but called Altá by all who knew her well - kissed him, they had been no more than children playing a game, and the lightning-fast kiss had taken him entirely by surprise. The story of that first kiss is embarrassing to him now that he’s achieved manhood; it makes him think of childish things and lost opportunities. Their next kiss had been different. That time, just a year ago, they had watched a red-orange sunset together and before she left him to go to her bed, Altá had leaned close and brushed her lips against the arch of his cheekbone. He had been close enough to see the faint spray of freckles across her nose, close enough to be enveloped in the rich, warm scent of her. The second kiss was nearly as quick as the first, and while it hadn’t been a kiss on the mouth as the first one had been, it was the first time Elfwine felt as if a  _ woman _ had kissed him. It was the first kiss that made him feel strong and capable, as though he could lift a mountain or run a mile, instead of sweaty and desperate. And so, the second reason he cannot tell anyone about either kiss: because in that moment he had been completely love-struck, a condition in which he has suffered for a full year.

From the earliest days of their childhoods, all of Eldarion’s sisters had circled their small group. Elfwine, Eldarion and Elboron had been older and thus inherently interesting to the younger girls. Their travels across Middle Earth - to distant settlements in Ithilien, the ruins of Osgiliath, and all around the mountains and rivers that crossed Rohan and Gondor - were a subject of great fascination to the girls, who were chiefly kept in the Citadel. As they grew older and their adventures became more involved - and occasionally featured a harrowing incident or two - the three boys grew fond of reenacting their daring exploits for the sisters, preening as their audience watched and cheered.

Altá, the eldest, born only a year and a half after her brother, would gamely organize the younger girls, gathering them to listen to whatever dramatic tale the boys would present, but never watched them herself. It was years before Elfwine finally realized that she never stayed, but saw that her sisters were settled and attentive before she disappeared from the room. That is when he started watching her, and wondering at what he saw. Why didn’t she want to hear about far away lands and swordfights, as her sisters did? Why did she tease her brother so mercilessly, sometimes until Elfwine or Elboron were forced to step between them, but treat her sisters with such tenderness? Over the course of their childhoods, Eldarion and Altá’s mutual dislike had only grown, at times ebbing, a mere hum in the background of Elfwine’s visits, and at times a source of near-constant conflict.

The last evening he had spent in Minas Tirith, at the end of a diplomatic trip with his mother, Elfwine found Altá in an empty stone corridor, perched in a window seat, watching the sun set behind the distant mountains.

“Why do you fight with Eldarion?” he had asked her.

“You do not have brothers or sisters,” she had said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You cannot understand.”

Elfwine had nodded then, unsure of what to say. His mother and father had not provided him with siblings, and those that had been born had lived only a short while. He had seen their grief play out over the first half of his childhood, until one day, his mother had turned to him with bright, focused eyes and reached a hand out to cup his cheek. “I was only meant to have you,” she had told him, smiling in a way that made him feel safe and wanted, and after that his mother carried no more children.

“You are angry,” Elfwine suggested at last. “Why are you so angry?”

Altá gave him a sharp and suspicious look, then turned to him, squaring her shoulders. “Because I will never see Osgiliath,” she said after a while. “Or the Black Gate or the Island of Tolfolas or the Falls of Rauros or anyplace, for that matter. Why should I want to hear about it all the time? And who are you to call me angry? I am not angry, I am--” Altá straightened and hesitated, “And if I  _ am  _ angry, I have every right to be.”

“Why can you not see the Falls of Rauros?”

“How will I get there? No one will take me, not even my father.”

“I would take you.”

She laughed, but her eyes stayed cold. 

“In a year or two I will be married to some prince - probably your cousin,” she wrinkled her nose, “and then I will be locked up so that I might produce as many heirs as possible before becoming entirely useless and forgotten.”

“Elboron wouldn’t do that.”

Altá shrugged and looked away, watching the last of the sunset.

Elfwine pressed on. “Perhaps I shall marry you, then. And I will take you with me on my travels.”

She seemed to mull it over, chewing at her bottom lip for a moment before looking back at him.

“I think I shall have more freedom as the Lady of Ithilien than the Queen of Rohan. It will have to be Elboron.”

Her mouth had twitched as though hiding a smile. The sight of that near-smile was too tempting, and Elfwine chased it, determined to see her happy.

“You would rather endure his greasy hair and stained shirts?”

“Perhaps I can improve him.”

“If my aunt cannot, you cannot.”

Altá laughed then, a true laugh that touched her eyes and made Elfwine’s heart beat faster.

“We cannot all be so perfect as you.”

“I am not perfect.”

“Good, then,” she said, smiling. “We cannot all be so  _ good _ as Prince Elfwine of Rohan.”

“You are,” he replied quickly, frowning and bewildered by her. “You are good.”

Altá’s smile faded and it was like the sun disappearing behind a cloud. “I am angry, as you said” she told him in a soft voice, and when he didn’t know what to say to that, she leaned toward him and kissed his cheek. 

Now, back in Minas Tirith, Elfwine spends a long, slow afternoon with his father, Eldarion and Elessar as they discuss the current state of their kingdoms. Eldarion has changed in the last year - there is the mischievous light in his eyes that Elfwine remembers from their years growing up side-by-side, but he has learned when to be serious. Elfwine marvels at his friend’s ability to be utterly still and attentive while listening to long monologues about copper mining and the bands of orcs still roaming along the Great Road in Anórien. For his part, Elfwine does his best to follow his example, but he can’t seem to stop his eyes from being drawn to the nearest open window, nor can he stop his thoughts from drifting to a Gondorian sunset he had watched when he was last in this city.

That evening at the feast in the Citadel’s Great Hall, he finds Altá among the revelers. When her eyes meet his, she looks away quickly, but Elfwine makes his way through the noisy crowd towards her anyway.

“You are well?” he shouts over the din.

“I am,” she says, giving him a tight smile. Elfwine suddenly wishes he hadn’t had so much wine already. “And you?”

“Yes,” he nods.

Altá draws herself up, taking a deep breath and coolly surveying the full hall. Next to her, Elfwine feels too big and awkward, unsure of what to say next, a drunken brute from the North. Then, Altá turns to look up at him and up close her expression is soft and gentle, and Elfwine feels his heart glow to see her looking at him like that.

“You’re beautiful,” he says quietly, because he’s had too much to drink and he can’t seem to stop himself. Her eyes widen and he quickly tries to course-correct. “I mean, you  _ look _ \-- You’ve-- Your dress is very…”

Elfwine trails off, feeling even more flushed and unwilling to dig this hole any deeper. Altá bites her bottom lip and raises her eyebrows. Just then, Eldarion cuts through the crowd to stand next to him.

“There you are,” he shouts, bumping Elfwine’s shoulder with his. “I’ve been looking. Where have you been?”

“He was just telling me how beautiful I am,” Altá says airily, and Eldarion rolls his eyes.

“What a liar you are, Altá.”

“I am  _ not _ ,” she says, squaring her shoulders towards him. Elfwine feels his body go tense. It’s a too-familiar scene. Eldarion and his eldest sister are oil and water. “And how dare you call me a liar when  _ you-- _ ”

Elfwine cuts her off, moving between them, taking Eldarion by the shoulders and ushering him away. As they shuffle through the crowd in the opposite direction, Elfwine looks back at Altá, who is looking at him with a wounded look that makes him shudder. Through gaps among the people who stand between them, he sees her blink, try to recover her lost dignity, and turn to walk out of the hall. He’s hit with a wave of guilt - where he should have said something, he said nothing, and now Altá cannot help but feel disdain for him. He feels it for himself already.

Elfwine stops in his tracks, and Eldarion turns to look at him.

“You were rude to her.”

“To who? To Altá?” Eldarion shakes his head. “Think of who you speak of. _ She _ is the rude one.”

“Not that time.”

He turns away, wanting to find her again, and Eldarion catches his elbow.

“I want another drink,” Elfwine says, hating how he again hesitates to tell Eldarion the truth.

“Are you sure?” Eldarion smiles good-naturedly and lets him go. “You smell like you’ve had plenty.”

Elfwine blushes and rolls his eyes. “I know what I smell like.”

He turns away from Eldarion and disappears back into the crowd. Maybe it is that he’s had too much to drink tonight, that he’s unused to the strength of the wine in Minas Tirith. Maybe that’s why he wants - no,  _ needs _ \- to see her again. The look on her face as he walked away follows him. If he could make her smile, just once, he could feel better about himself, and the days to come, and everything in between.

He passes stewards holding trays of drinks and makes his way out of the hall and into the dark, candlelit hall beyond. A few paces away, he sees the dark outline of Altá walking away from him and he jogs to catch up to her.

“Altá,” he calls, and she turns to look at him. The look on her face chips away at his courage, but he plants his feet in front of her anyway. “I am sorry,” he starts, “I should have said something. I mean, I did. Say something. But after…”

“I don’t need you to say anything to Eldarion on my behalf.”

“I know. I don’t think you do. It’s only--” Elfwine clenches his jaw, forcing himself to be the responsible, kind man his father has tried to mold him into. “I should have, anyway. When I last saw you, you said I was good. I cannot bear to have disappointed you.”

Her lips part, then press into a line. She looks down at her hands.

“You have not,” she says quietly, but Elfwine feels suddenly doubtful. She takes a breath and looks away. 

He steps forward, closer to her, and still she looks away.

“Do you hate me?” 

The question spills out of him, before he can try to stop it. He cringes. But only a few minutes ago in the hall, she had looked at him with what seemed like affection and now she is all ice again. The thought of that quick change pulls at his heart.

“You are mistaken, your highness,” Altá says lowly. “Not everything is about you.”

Elfwine sighs. After so many years spent in each other’s orbit, he’s used to her more difficult moods, and isn’t cowed by them (anymore).

“I thought about you. Especially after...,” he persists, and finally she looks back at him. “Have you thought about me?”

“As I said, not everything…”

“Have you?”

“I am not as drunk as you are,” she says, smiling weakly.

“An easy thing to remedy.”

She narrows her eyes.

“My brother would laugh at you, to hear you talk to me like this. And he isn’t the only one. Doesn’t it bother you?”

“Are  _ you _ laughing at me?”

“No.”

“Then I am not bothered.”

She frowns, and steps closer to him, looking for a moment like a viper circling its prey. 

“Why, then? What fascinating thing did I say that night that stuck in your mind? Did my eyes sparkle in the moonlight? I have known you since I was a girl and have never once known you to care whether I hated you or not.”

“I-- It was what you said. You were interesting. I didn’t know--”

“You’ve never met an interesting girl before?”

“A few.”

She gives him a strange look, then glances away. “Eldarion will be waiting for you.”

“Come back with me.”

Altá shakes her head. 

“I must check in on my sisters.”

“I will come with you.”

“You will not.”

“Why not? Do they not enjoy my company?”

“They--”Altá starts and stops. She gives him a challenging look and turns back down the hall. “All right then.”

Elfwine follows her through the darkened corridors of The Citadel. He gets her to tell him a little bit about the year that separated them. Altá haltingly reveals that the winter season was unusually cold, and that her mother is teaching her Quenya. In exchange, Elfwine offers up a particularly amusing story from last autumn, when he had seen his father’s horse balk at crossing a stream it deemed too deep; the sudden stop had dismounted Rohan’s king and sent the sovereign face-first into the muddy streambank. Altá can't help but smile, then laugh. Elfwine smiles back at her, hoping he isn’t grinning like a fool. Then, she stops in front of a heavy wooden door.

Altá gives him a nervous look, and for a second, Elfwine wonders what sort of precipice he stands on. He has never been permitted into the girls’ room, that inner sanctum of femininity, a door he has passed in the hall while visiting Eldarion but never before entered. From behind it, he can hear talking, raised voices, and laughter. Altá pushes the door open and the muffled sounds erupt into an outpouring of joy. Altá is immediately swarmed by the younger girls, who wrap their arms around her waist and call her name, begging her for her attention, begging her to tell them everything about the events in the Great Hall. The youngest girls are already in their nightgowns and wraps; the older girls are still in their day dresses. Elfwine watches intently as Altá transforms. She smiles and strokes their hair. It’s a loud, chaotic scene, and Altá seems entirely at home in it. The two youngest girls have red faces and puffy, watery eyes, and point fingers at each other for whatever disagreement brought them to tears; Altá kneels and cups each of their faces in her hands. Just then, the sisters seem to realize that Elfwine has followed her into the room, and they go unnaturally quiet and still. Altá stands and turns to look at him as though she, too, has only just realized he was there.

“Do you have a story for us, Prince Elfwine?” one of them asks.

He looks to Altá, and she raises her eyebrows at him.

Elfwine takes a breath, glad that he had a chance to sober up on the long walk to their rooms.

“There were one or two close scrapes on the road here,” he offers, and the girls bubble up again, taking his hands and leading him further into the room.

Baskets of thread, beautifully painted dolls, and piles of fabric are moved to clear a seat for him. As he settles in, the youngest girl hands Altá a silver brush. Altá sits on a bench, rearranges her skirts so that her sister can sit between her knees, and begins to brush the girl’s long, dark hair. The other girls pile onto the carpet in front of him, with their arms around each other and their heads in each others’ laps. They are lit up in dim candlelight, their eyes wide, waiting for his story.

Elfwine takes a deep breath, stretches his arms to put his hands on his knees, and begins.

***

In the morning, Elfwine learns that in the next few days, they will continue on to Dol Amroth, his mother’s homeland. There, he and Eldarion will learn about trade with Gondor’s coastal cities. The night before, Eldarion had chided Elfwine for how long it had taken him to rejoin the festivities in the Great Hall. Elfwine hadn’t revealed that he had spent a long hour with Eldarion’s sisters, until the littlest had to be put to bed. Altá had seen him out. Just as she bid him goodnight, she'd given him an approving smile, and Elfwine had walked on air back to the Great Hall. 

Now, he strides into the throne room, where Elessar holds court in the mornings, and where he guesses Altá will be. He spots his father first, talking on the dais with Elessar, then he sees Altá. She stands against one of the marble columns that lift the ceiling of the giant, echoing chamber. He feels a rush of gratitude at finding her alone, and makes his way towards her.

“We leave for Dol Amroth in two days,” he announces when he reaches her.

Altá answers him with a pinched smile. 

“Good for you,” she offers.

“You must come with us,” he insists. “Ask your father.”

“I have never been to Dol Amroth.”

“All the more reason to come.”

“Eldarion is going. He will not want me there.”

Elfwine shakes his head. “You will not see him. You will see my aunt, and my cousins, and the sea.”

Altá purses her lips and looks away from him. He can see in her face how much she wants to come, how torn she is.

“I have not seen the sea.”

“If you do not ask your father, I will.”

She turns back to him quickly.

“You will not.”

Elfwine looks at her for another moment, then turns on his heels, walking briskly across the hall to the dais where his father and Elessar are deep in conversation. Behind him, he hears Altá swear in Sindarin before scrambling to catch up with him, hindered by her tight Gondorian shoes, heavy skirts and shorter legs. She reaches him just as he’s stepped up to their fathers and greeted them.

“Your grace--” Elfwine starts, addressing Elessar, and just then Altá passes him, breathless, and reaches for her father’s arm.

“May I speak with you, father?” she asks, pulling gently at his elbow until Elessar nods a quick farewell to Elfwine and Éomer as he is tugged away.

When they are beyond hearing range, Elfwine turns to his father.

“She will come with us to Dol Amroth.”

“Hm,” Éomer hums, looking across the hall to the spot where Altá and Elessar are deep in conversation. “Hild will like her.”

“Yes, I thought so, too.”

“Did you?”

There’s something odd in his father’s voice that makes Elfwine look at him sharply.

“Yes. Shouldn’t she?”

His father looks around the room awkwardly. Elfwine furrows his brow.

“I hope you do not expect too much of her.”

“I expect nothing.”

“She is very lovely, but there are many lovely girls in the world.”

Elfwine frowns, knowing immediately what his father is saying, how he is trying to discourage him, and hating the cryptic way he is saying it.

“I expect nothing of her,” he repeats forcefully, “She only said once that she wished to travel, and here is an opportunity.”

His father nods his head, and Elfwine huffs, feeling chagrined and certain at the same time. He has done his best to be the son his father had hoped for, to be obedient and respectful. But in the Citadel, he finds that he has no patience for his father’s hesitation; about Altá, Elfwine is entirely sure. Altá must come with them to Dol Amroth, and to Rohan if he can manage it. He is drawn to her, and to the way he feels around her. He craves it, craves  _ her _ , and will not be dissuaded easily.

In the end, Altá does receive permission to accompany them to Dol Amroth, a fact that Eldarion finds ridiculous and protests against loudly. On the road from Minas Tirith, Altá does her best to keep her distance, staying in her carriage or trailing behind them on her horse. Elfwine is used to traveling with Eldarion, and the two of them spend their days on the road trading stories, laughing until their stomachs ache, and, occasionally, discussing the state of their respective kingdoms and what kinds of monarchs they hope to one day be. 

On the second night, after they have set up camp and Eldarion and his father have retired to their tents, Elfwine discovers Elessar by one of the many campfires. The king is so different on the road, dressed in rough clothing, with stubble growing on his face. Next to him, Altá sits on a wooden stool, leaning forward to hear her father speak; her elbows are on her knees and her chin is in her hand. Elfwine asks to join them, and Elessar welcomes him to their little circle. As the night grows dark, Elfwine stokes the fire as he listens to Altá and her father talk. He hadn’t known that they were close, and he is surprised to hear her ask questions on a wide variety of topics. At Altá’s prompting, Elessar uses a stick to draw a map of Middle Earth in the dirt and asks Elfwine to fill in Rohan. Together, they draw the lines of trade that connect each part of their realms. A line from Dol Amroth to Edoras represents salted cod and timber. A line from Ithilien to Minas Tirith represents wine and marble. Elfwine sketches in a line from Edoras to the Westfold to represent the export of wheat. Altá listens intently, looking at her father like he hung the moon. 

Elfwine finds them again the next night, and the next, and each night they let him into their little circle. On their last night on the road, he looks for them again, making his way from the brightly colored tents brought from Rohan to the elegant silver-white tents from Gondor. But he finds Altá alone, and hesitates for a moment before asking if he can join her. It had been one thing to sit in the camp with Altá and Elessar - anyone who had seen them would have thought it an unremarkable and appropriate scene. He wonders if she cares whether or not she is seen with him unchaperoned. But then she spots him standing awkwardly nearby and frowns at him. 

“Will you not join me?” she says plainly, and Elfwine is forced to approach, glancing warily at the others still walking through the camp despite the late hour.

“I thought perhaps you would not want to be seen alone with me.”

Altá suppresses a smile. 

“You think they will guess us to be lovers?”

“I-- No. Maybe. Why wouldn’t they?”

“Because I am me and you are you.”

“What--”

Altá looks at the camp and its quiet hum of activity. Soldiers and diplomats are gathering their bags, packing for their impending arrival in Dol Amroth.

“Because you are an honorable man,” she continues quietly.

“And you are?”

“Not the sort of woman men are wont to take as a lover.”

“Meaning?”

“A woman who must be made to marry because she will not attract attention on her own.”

“I disagree,” Elfwine says with certainty, taking a seat on the folding stool next to her.

“You are not required to agree,” she shrugs. “In any case, there is no need to worry. Your company will bolster my reputation, not ruin it.”

“You have a low opinion of yourself.”

“No, actually,” she says, looking at the flames flickering in the firepit between them. “I am only repeating what I know others think. As for myself, a man once told me that I was beautiful and interesting, and I am inclined to agree with him.”

Elfwine smiles, his face growing hot.

“He sounds very wise.”

“Yes, I thought so.”

They sit together until the camp grows quiet and the fire burns low. At last a maid comes to spirit Altá back to her tent, and she smiles her goodnight at him. 

In the morning, they ride into Dol Amroth, and for three days Elfwine does not see Altá at all. He knows that she is somewhere in the palace there, but just as at the Citadel, hidden away in the places where women can go but men do not. Instead, he spends his time with his father, Elessar, Eldarion, his uncle Amrothos and his grandfather, Prince Imrahil. They sit in important rooms and talk of important things. They tour the principality, taking breaks to swim and sail when the weather is favorable. Amrothos leads them to a cenote - a vast limestone cave sheltering a beautiful pool of cerulean-blue water - at the far end of the beach that stretches south from the city. They strip off their clothes and swim, climbing the rocks to dive into the pool again and again.

That night, Elfwine finally sees Altá again, at a feast in the palace’s great hall. She tells him that she has spent the intervening days with his aunt, Lady Hild, and little cousins. She has dined with them, and played with them, and become the childrens’ favorite. It makes Elfwine smile to hear her stories, and to know how easily his aunt has welcomed her. But then he asks how she likes the sea, and she confesses that she has not had time to walk the beaches of Dol Amroth, much less see the vast ocean. The thought of that - that at his urging Altá has come all this way only to perform the same role she had at home - galls him. He tells her to meet him at the city’s gates the next day, just as the sun starts to grow low. She hesitates, but finally agrees, and the next afternoon, she comes to him and he leads her out of the gates and onto the beach.

She walks for a long time down the beach, sometimes at his side, and sometimes pulling away from him. Once they are far enough from the city, Elfwine pulls off his boots and persuades her to take off her slippers and feel the sand slide between her toes. She begins a little shell collection in the palm of her hand, and Elfwine adds to it, picking up purple chips of mussel shells and pearly white fragments until the collection has grown too large and must be transferred to his vest pocket. When they’ve finally walked far enough that they can no longer see the palace towers, Elfwine cuffs his pants over his calves and walks to the waterline, letting white foam splash around his ankles. With a little more cajoling, he gets Altá to lift the skirts of her plain blue dress just far enough to do the same.

As they walk, an idea grows in Elfwine’s mind until it is so overwhelming he cannot ignore it: he will take Altá to the cenote. She should see it, he decides; it is too extraordinary a sight to miss while in this part of the country. They walk a while further and finally reach it, climbing through a small, dark cave and then into the open chamber beyond. Altá gasps when she sees it, and smiles. Light streams through the wide opening at the top of the cenote, through which tumble green-leafed vines, stretching down to the surface of the water.

“Come on,” Elfwine says, his voice echoing off the walls. He tosses aside his boots. “We should swim.”

Altá blinks, surprised at the suggestion.

“I cannot--”

Elfwine stuffs his knit socks into his boots and stands next to her.

“Why not? If Eldarion were here, he would be in the water already.”

He watches as her eyes scan the giant cavern before them, and the cool blue-green pool, such an inviting respite from a hot summer day.

“I cannot--” she starts and stops again. Her brow furrows; Elfwine can almost  _ hear _ her thinking. “The laces on my dress,” she says at last, “I cannot untie them on my own.”

“Let me.”

The stone floor is cold and damp under his bare feet as he walks to stand behind her. Altá gathers her dark hair in one hand, then pulls it over her shoulder, baring the smooth skin of her neck to him. Elfwine forces himself to focus on the task at hand: the line of lacing that stretches from the neckline of her dress to the small of her back. He has never undressed a girl - a  _ woman _ \- before, and he finds that the process is more involved than he had thought. He pulls delicately at the lace that holds the back of her dress together, terrified that his big hands should rip it and ruin something he barely understands. At last, the task is done. He pulls the lace free and the back of Altá’s gown gaps slightly, revealing her white linen shift under it. Her arms move up to hold it against her chest. Elfwine swallows and looks away, realizing suddenly that swimming in the cenote with Eldarion is an entirely different thing than  _ this _ , and perhaps he should have listened more closely to Altá’s hesitation.

“Turn your back,” she says softly, “until I am in the water.”

He does, hearing a rustling of fabric as she slides the dress off and places it on a dry patch on the rocks. He starts on the buttons of his vest and finds that his hands are shaking. Finally, he hears splashing and turns back. Altá is waist deep in the water, her white shift floating around her. She has braided her hair into a long rope that hangs over her shoulder. He watches as she wades in deeper, then finally kicks off and swims out. She has not looked back at him, and he takes advantage of her distraction to undress himself, stripping down to the linen shorts he wears under his pants and following her into the pool.

For a long while, they float and paddle through the cool water. Elfwine is grateful for the distance Altá keeps between them, glad that she is too far for him to touch, too far for her to see how flushed and nervous he is to be doing this with her. Then, Elfwine makes the mistake of telling Altá that when they had come the day before, Eldarion had jumped from a rocky overhang into the pool below. Before he can say more, Altá is swimming towards the shore and climbing up the rocks herself. For a moment, Elfwine laughs - amused by her immediate impulse to compete with Eldarion - but then he sees the way her shift clings to her bare legs (a quick glance at the pile of clothes she left behind reveals a neat stack of stockings) and feels his body go hot and still. His eyes drift up and see that the wet fabric also presses against her hips, her waist, her shoulders, her arms, her breasts. Under the water, his hand, seemingly of its own accord, drifts to the place between his legs where he is already half-hard and aching for her. He catches himself quickly, moving his wayward hand to rub at the back of his neck and directing his eyes to her face. Even from far away, he can see how determined she is. At the top of the rock, she stands ready to jump, and before she does, she looks down at him, blinks, as though just remembering he was there, and then looks down at herself. She looks back at him and straightens her shoulders, having made the decision to be unashamed of her own body, daring him to look at her and want her (and  _ oh _ , how he does). Altá jumps into the darkest part of the lake, and when she comes to the surface again, she is laughing.

They swim for a while longer, and when Altá finally decides to climb out of the water again, Elfwine has the good sense to look away.

“All right,” she calls after a while, and he turns to see her near the edge of the water with her dress back on.

Elfwine swims to the edge. As he walks out of the water, Altá doesn’t turn her back. When he is waist deep, he hesitates to go further, knowing how the light fabric of his shorts will cling, and she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Is it not fair?” she asks, quiet but defiant, and Elfwine feels a hot coil build low in his gut. He feels on the precipice of something deep and unfathomable, like Altá standing on the rock before she dove, looking down into the dark water that would catch her. He moves again, carefully stepping on slippery rocks. As he emerges, the water pulls and tugs at his shorts; he feels the cloth sticking to his thighs, tight around his hips. He walks to her, breathing hard, working to hold back his arousal. When he is only a few feet from her, her gaze finally drops from his eyes to his body. For a quick moment, her lips part and Elfwine hears her gasp softly, but then her mouth is closed again and she is looking at him with her usual casual disinterest. “If you could,” she says, turning her back to him.

She has abandoned the soaked shift and is now naked under her gown. Through the gap at the back of her dress, he can see a long strip of bare skin and the curve of her body.  Elfwine takes a shaky breath, then clears his throat loudly, hoping she can’t hear his nervousness. He does his best to keep his hands steady as he feeds the lace through the loops on her gown.

“Altá,” he gasps at last, after he’s laced her from the dress from her hips to the nape of her neck, feeling lightheaded and almost taken by surprise at how much he wants her.

She turns to face him, her eyes lingering on his bare chest and shoulders before looking up at him. Her eyes are blue, as blue as the water in the cenote. She licks her lips, and all Elfwine can think of is how badly he wants her to touch him. He throws off any remaining concern for what is correct or proper. He wants her to see that he is hard for her. He wants her to--

“I’ll wait outside,” she says, barely more than a whisper.

She leaves him and he takes several deep breaths, trying to calm himself. Then, when at last the throb between his legs has subsided, Elfwine pulls on his pants, shirt and vest, grabs his boots and socks and joins her outside on the beach. The wind has tossed her now-unbraided hair into a wild mess. The sand has stung her cheeks and made them rosy. Her shoes dangle from her left hand. The clouds above them have started to turn colors - brilliant pinks, soft orange and violet. Here, Altá is luminous, alive, the woman he loves above all others. But then when she turns to him, there is something in her face that worries him. She clears her throat.

“Last summer I told you that perhaps I would be made to marry Elboron.”

“An unlucky fate indeed,” he says, smiling, but his smile fades quickly at the look on her face.

“I am,” she says, then shakes her head, “I mean, I will.”

“Will?” Elfwine’s throat feels suddenly dry as the sand under their feet.

“It’s been arranged,” she tells him, standing straight-backed and looking anywhere but at his face.

“Do you love him?”

“Of course not. That--”

“Does Elboron love you? Are you--”

She looks at him with a mixture of confusion and bewilderment. “No. You can’t possibly think that we will be married for love. It will be a great show of support for Ithilien from the sovereign of Gondor. And Elboron is a man now, and he will need heirs so that the line of stewards may continue.” 

“How easy you are about it.”

“How else should I be? It is the reason I am here, in Dol Amroth,” she waves a hand at the beach beside them, then looks back at Elfwine’s gobsmacked face. “I have been granted a last piece of freedom before taking my place in Emyn Arnen.”

Elfwine looks away from her, casting his gaze out to sea, to the expanse of glittering blue water that stretches out towards the distant horizon. He swallows hard, past a thick lump in his throat, and clenches his jaw.

“Do you  _ want _ to marry him?”

“He is a good man.”

“Yes, he is.”

“There are worse fates.”

“There are.”

Altá huffs and crosses her arms, obviously frustrated by his reticence and his reaction to her news.

“What would you have me do?”

“Come with me to Rohan.”

She laughs. “We are all well aware of what your mother did, running off to Edoras like that. But it is a gambit that will only work once.” She uncrosses her arms and stands awkwardly before him. “And besides, how can you assure me that a life in Rohan would be better than a life in Ithilien? Neither is my own choice, just another place I have been told to go.”

“What would be your own choice, then?”

“I have none. I never have. I have found that it is better not to approach the world as though you have choices to make in it.”

“How?”

“If I had allowed myself to want something, then when my father and mother told me the news that I would marry Elboron and go to Ithilien, I would have protested and it would have broken their hearts. If I want nothing in particular, then I can smile and agree and not be the cause of a problem.”

“But you  _ do  _ want things. You wanted to come here. You wanted to swim in the cenote.”

Altá sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Elfwine,” she starts impatiently, “you are confusing lust for love. Lust is common and love is a story for children. It’s best to ignore both of them when you can.”

“How can you say that? Your parents--”

She grits her teeth and Elfwine swears he hears her growl. 

“There is some freedom in chaos. With the world nearly ended, there were few who could object when they chose each other. But now the world is stable, but fragile. Our ranks come with a great responsibility to our people, and that is not something that can be thrown off lightly.”

“You deny yourself.”

“You assume that I feel something I do not.”

Her words sting, but he pushes past it.

“It is not an assumption to say that you have closed yourself off to the world only because you think it has closed itself to you. It is a great tragedy, and I do not hesitate to say so.” 

“So I am a  _ great tragedy _ ?” she nearly shouts, and Elfwine can hear how her voice is starting to break.

“Yes,” he shouts back. “I have seen who you are. There--” he gestures back to the cave leading to the cenote, “and on the road here, and even now. There is a fire in you and you are wrong to snuff it out.”

“If there is a fire in me, then you are a bucket of cold water.” 

She turns her back to him and starts to walk back along the beach, slowed by the way her bare feet sink into the sand. In only a few steps, Elfwine has caught up to her, holding onto her elbow until she swings back to him, ready to fight again, but instead he catches her in his arms. Altá is still and quiet for a moment, frozen as his arms fold around her, and then she surrenders. Elfwine feels her shake and sob against him for a few moments, before she pushes away from him, stumbles a few steps and sits hard on the sand, her knees bent and her face streaked with tears. He slowly moves to sit next to her. It’s a sight he had never dreamed of seeing - Altá, always so cool and distant and quick to anger, with her cheeks turned red and her eyes puffy from crying. Her lips are pressed into a tight line, holding in sobs that make her chest quake. He scoots closer to her, raising a hand to touch her back, and she sniffles and flinches.

“Permit me?” he asks softly, and she sags and leans into him, letting him fold his arm around her shoulders. They sit that way for a long time, Altá wiping her face with her skirts every once in a while. The sun slides down across the sky, toward the western horizon. Their shadows grow long behind them. 

“I should not have yelled,” Elfwine admits after she’s quieted down and it’s been several minutes since the last time she wiped her tears.

“Nor should I have,” she says, and they are both silent for a long time after that. 

Finally, the sun is only a hair’s breadth from setting, and Elfwine knows they must return soon to the palace at Dol Amroth.

She pulls away from him slightly, enough that he has to retract his arm, and the loss makes his heart ache. Altá looks at him.

“Will you visit me sometime in Emyn Arnen?”

Elfwine tries to match her gaze, but the idea of that - visiting her in a foreign palace where she will be his cousin’s wife - tears its way through him. 

“If you wish,” he manages.

“I know you are Eldarion’s friend first, but I hope--” she hesitates, then take a deep breath and tries on one of her false smiles, which is far too shaky and fragile to be mistaken for her real smile. “I hope we shall be friends, too, as you said once.”

“We are,” he says, reaching for her hand. “Altá--”

She shakes her head to silence him, and pulls her hands into her lap. The sun has started its journey beyond the horizon, lighting the sky above them on fire. Orange and purple light catches in Altá’s dark hair. 

“You are right about me,” she tells him. “But if I thought too often of the things I want but cannot have, I would live in a constant state of grief.”

Elfwine watches her face. She is so different now, so soft and open, and he drinks it in.

“Tell me,” he whispers, “Tell me what it is you want. Please.”

“You are the one person I cannot tell,” she replies, and her words make Elfwine’s heart pound.

She doesn’t object when he raises a hand to touch her cheek, and she says nothing when his fingers brush against her hair. Her breath quickens when he moves closer to her. When he runs his thumb along her cheek, her gaze drops to his mouth. She says his name a moment before he kisses her, and then her arms are around his neck, she is warm and real in his arms, and Elfwine is consumed by his love for her. By the time they part from each other, breathless and flushed, the sun is gone, just a mere yellow glow in the west. Elfwine reaches for Altá again, his hand in her hair, needing more of her, but she pulls away and stands. She runs a hand over her hair, trying to smooth the places that Elfwine had ruffled, then picks up her shoes and walks further towards the sea to the place where the sand is wetter and easier to walk on.

Elfwine follows her, calling her name. She turns to him again, and in the dim light he can see helplessness in her eyes.

“If Eldarion knew,” she begins. “If  _ Elboron  _ knew. If  _ my father _ knew.”

Elfwine cringes. What  _ would _ the King of Gondor think if he knew how Elfwine had undressed his daughter and kissed her and wanted her so badly? What would his dearest friends think, in particular his cousin, who is destined to marry her? He takes a deep breath of clean, salty air. He remembers how, just moments ago, Altá had been warm in his arms. He remembers -  _ knows _ \- how eagerly she had clung to him and pressed against him on the darkening beach. The others - Eldarion, Elboron, their fathers - fall away.

“Come to Rohan.”

“I cannot…” she says, then frowns. “How can I?”

“With me, when we return next week.”

She is quiet for a long moment, and Elfwine feels himself waiting on tenterhooks for her response. The moon is rising, shining off the sea and lighting Altá up in an unearthly glow. She is unspeakably beautiful to him; he clenches his fists at his sides to keep from reaching for her before she is ready to accept him again.

“Alright,” she says, and he can only just hear her over the roar of the ocean beside them. “If you can… If you can arrange it.” 

“I can,” Elfwine says, and he steps closer to her, hoping that she will open herself up to him again, and she does. Altá’s shoulders relax slightly and her expression goes soft. 

“Elfwine,” she says again, in the same gentle way she had just a few moments ago, and for a brief moment Elfwine marvels at how different she is now. Gone is the girl he had seen so many times red-faced, with tears of frustration in her eyes, fighting with her brother. Gone, for now, is the girl who had been so angry, so stubborn, who had earned her reputation as the most difficult of the king’s daughters. The woman in front of him now is lovely, winsome and full of a tentative kind of hope. He leans forward to kiss her again, and this time the hesitation of the first kiss is gone. Altá drops her shoes and they fall in the damp sand. In another moment, her hands are in his hair and his tongue is in her mouth. She moans - a sweet, hungry sound - as Elfwine grabs her waist and pulls her against him. Elfwine kisses her mouth, her jaw, her throat, until the night grows dark and the moon grows brighter. Until he knows at last that he must pull away from her before he leaves her on this beach a fallen woman. He presses his forehead against hers as they catch their breath.

“I want you,” he growls through clenched teeth, struggling to keep control over himself.

“Yes,” she says, “I know.”

Altá kisses him again, and presses her hips against his in a way that will surely leave no doubt in her mind as to  _ how much _ he wants her. Her hands trace the sides of his waist, the curve of his back, and Elfwine feels his resolve crumbling.

“Altá,” he starts, gasping for breath, “We have to go back or I’ll...I’ll…”

“What?” she asks, looking at him with dark eyes. She bites her lower lip. Elfwine can’t help smiling to himself.  _ There she is _ , he thinks, at last recognizing the girl who was always so skilled at pushing people to their furthest edge.

“Or I’ll be bringing you back to Dol Amroth in such a state…”

“What a high opinion you have of yourself,” Altá smiles, “when it’s me who has you in a state.”

Elfwine laughs and steps away from her. He reaches for her hand and keeps it in his as they walk along the dark beach. He doesn’t let her go until they are at the city gates. There, before he asks for entry to the city, he pulls her into a dark corner and kisses her again, wanting to know one more time that the last hours were real and not some fevered imagining. Altá comes to him easily, letting him press her back against the city’s stone wall as he takes her in his arms. She lets him run his hands through her hair, lets him trace the lines of her neck and collarbones.

“Elfwine,” she whispers in the dark, and Elfwine is sure that he will never grow tired of hearing her say his name.

At last she pulls away from him, pressing her hands against his chest to keep Elfwine at bay. Altá smooths her hair and her dress; they each pull their shoes back on. The sentries grant them entrance without a second look; Elfwine supposes they are used to granting access to and from the moonlit beach to rumpled pairs of lovers. As they reach the palace at the height of the city, Elfwine reaches into his vest pocket to retrieve the shells he and Altá collected on the beach and wraps them in his handkerchief. She smiles as she takes the little white bundle from him. The palace’s hallways hum with activity in the hours before the night’s feast, and Altá slips away from him easily, turning to climb the stairs to her chamber, up and out of his sight. 

Elfwine watches her go, and when she has disappeared around a stone column, he turns to see his father watching him from across the crowded entrance hall. There is a story written on his father’s face that makes Elfwine’s heart stutter. His father has seen him enter the palace at a late hour with Altá by his side, and Elfwine knows that despite their efforts to tidy themselves his father will have noticed Elfwine’s still-open shirt collar and Altá’s poorly laced dress. Even from this distance, he can see disappointment and grief in his father’s eyes, and Elfwine reflexively feels a sting of shame. 

“Elfwine,” his father calls, beckoning him to his side, and just as Elfwine turns to face him head-on, he hears his name again and turns away. From the other end of the hall, Eldarion and Elboron bound up to him.

“Where have you been?” Eldarion shouts, grabbing his arm, then wrapping his arm around Elfwine’s shoulders. “Elboron has just arrived.”

Elboron grins at him and Elfwine manages to smile back. “What brings you here?” he manages, still trying to smile.

“He is here to woo my sister,” Eldarion announces, looking at Elboron with laughter in his eyes, as though there were some joke between them that Elfwine is only now introduced to. “Have you not heard? They are to be married.”

“Oh.”

Eldarion continues, “And while I will be happy to have our friend here as my brother, I certainly do not wish my sister upon him.”

Eldarion and Elboron chuckle, and Elfwine feels his gorge rise. He takes a breath to calm himself, and turns to Elboron.

“My mother heard that she was in Dol Amroth, and thought it was to be taken advantage of,” Elboron says, shrugging.

“What will you do with her? I mean-- What will you do together, while you are here?”

This sends Eldarion and Elboron into another wave of incredulous laughter.

“Nothing, of course,” Elboron tells him plainly. “It’s Altá. What is there to do?”

Then, something over Elfwine’s shoulder catches his eye and he gestures to Eldarion. “Your father wants you,” Elboron says, and Eldarion turns, releasing Elfwine from his grip.

“We sail at dawn,” Eldarion shouts back as they disappear back down the hall, and Elfwine feels the weight of Eldarion’s arm on his shoulder replaced by his father’s heavy hand.


End file.
